


The doors you open I just can't close

by wildestranger



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has a bruise. It is taunting Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The doors you open I just can't close

**Author's Note:**

> A week ago I was sort of idly thinking about the pornlet I need to write for [](http://elucreh.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**elucreh**](http://elucreh.dreamwidth.org/), and then about how the glute machine at the gym yesterday left tiny bruises on my hipbone (I am a small person, and the machine is not meant for people my size), and how it kind of hurt but I was kind of into it, lol Brendon Urie. And then I thought about Tom Hardy, and this sort of happened. Look, he just makes me have these feelings, okay? Mostly these are feelings in my pants, but fortunately on this occasion I was able to translate these feelings into porn. Yay?

There is a bruise on Arthur’s hip, just below the waist of his trousers and above the delicate curve of his hipbone. Eames cannot see it, since it’s hiding behind the grey wool of Arthur’s suit, but he knows it’s there because he put it there himself. Not on purpose, as it happens (Eames takes a moment to consider Arthur’s reaction if he suspected Eames of trying to intentionally mark him, and decides to attempt it at the first opportunity), but the dip between Arthur’s belly and his thigh had been too tempting, begging him to place his thumbs just _there_ and hold Arthur in place. Arthur didn’t want to be held in place, or at least, did not want to appear to acquiesce to such a thing, and so he’d pushed back, pushed forward and right into Eames’s hands. Eames had to distract him with his mouth on Arthur’s throat and a leg sliding between Arthur’s thighs, but his fingers had stayed there. Right where he could feel every twitch of Arthur’s hips, every second of taut frustration when Arthur tried not to push back as Eames pressed him against the wall.

This morning, when Eames had been engaged in his not-at-all-creepy ritual of staring at Arthur while he slept (and perhaps accidentally pulling off the sheet from where it was inconsiderately concealing Arthur’s body) he had seen it, a tiny bruise marring Arthur’s skin in the precise shape of Eames’s thumb. He had been thinking about it, about fitting his mouth there and tracing the edges with his tongue, maybe sucking on the as-yet-unmarked skin right next to the bruise, when Arthur had opened one eye and glared at him. A tiny frown was already on his forehead, and Eames couldn’t help the ridiculous smile that tugged at his mouth.

“You’re staring again. Stop it.”

“But darling, I was just thinking about waking you up with a blowjob. Surely staring is permissible when preparing for such a worthy goal?”

Arthur opened his other eye and pursed his lips, causing him to look not nearly as delighted as he should have been by such a thoughtful idea. Eames licked his lips and leered, in case this might encourage a more positive approach.

It didn’t. Arthur’s frown deepened into a scowl.

“Not today. We have to be at work in half an hour, and we are not going to be late again.”

Eames pouted half-heartedly and Arthur scowled some more, no doubt to convey how much he did not want Eames to accompany him to the shower and make them late, again.

Arthur was so unreasonable sometimes. Eames gave an exaggerated sigh. “If you say so.”

With a slight narrowing of the eyes, Arthur had left him to have his solitary, efficient, no-water-wasted-with-frolicking shower. But now it has been hours, and the bruise is still taunting Eames. It is not uncommon for him to be distracted by thoughts of Arthur – Eames spends a considerable amount of every working day preoccupied with thoughts of what he would like to do to Arthur, usually when Cobb is talking because he has trained himself out of listening to people who tell him things he already knows. It is a better and more productive use of his time.

 

“…which means that we have less than a week before we need to be in place for the extraction. Eames can tell us more about the situation in Melbourne, can’t you, Eames?”

The emphasis on the last three words indicates that Arthur expects him to not have followed the conversation (Arthur won’t ask what was so interesting that he didn’t make the effort, as past experience has shown that Eames will tell him, and everyone else, exactly what he was thinking about, and that tends to traumatise the rest of their team more than is conducive to a productive working environment). But Eames enjoys surprising Arthur. And he had sneaked a peek at his notes while Arthur was making himself beautiful that morning.

“Thank you, Arthur. Now, I have a fact sheet which I’m sending to your inboxes after lunch – it only needs a few more additions from this morning’s meeting – but basically the set up follows that of the Tierneisson job: We go in as cleaning crew, I distract the mark with my cheeky cockney accent and a request for directions to the loo, and while he is being thus charmed Arthur clips him in the neck with a tiny tranquiliser. Yusuf and Ariadne swoop in and carry him to his office and we go in as practised. The mark is known for staying in late, and the secretaries know not to disturb him after six so there should be no problems from inquisitive members of staff after hours. The mark is also known for his unfriendly attitude to those working in the janitorial team, so it’s unlikely anyone else will want to speak to him either. In any case, Ariadne will stand guard by the door, ready to make sexy noises in case someone thinks of knocking on the door.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Wonderful.”

Eames gives her an encouraging smile. “I’m sure your sexy noises are very nice. However, should you…”

“No, Eames, I will not be needing any extra training…”

“…require any additional advice, I’m sure we could arrange…”

“Right, everybody, I think it’s time for lunch. Chinese okay this time?”

Cobb is standing up and packing his things, which is their secret sign for finishing the meeting quickly before Arthur has time to protest. Arthur believes in late lunches, or hurried sandwiches gobbled at his desk, and the rest of the team have developed a secret plan to counter this. It involves sudden deafness to anything Arthur says after the signal is given, and having a loud conversation about take-away whilst moving quickly away from the planning area. It had been Ariadne’s idea, but Eames fully supports the plan – he is in favour of training Arthur into new habits. Particularly habits which facilitate distracting Arthur at work.

He is waiting for Cobb and Yusuf to come back from the Chinese place around the corner, playing with his chopsticks (and by playing he means fellating, since they’re there and he can and it always makes Ariadne roll her eyes and start muttering ‘Men!’ under her breath) when Arthur appears at his elbow.

“Mr Eames. A word, if you please.” Arthur is looming over his chair in a way that would be humorous if it were not also strangely arousing. Sometimes Eames wonders if he ought to be concerned about how his mind has learned to interpret threats of violence as cause for instant erections.

“Of course, darling. As many as you like.” The words come by rote at this point, but Arthur nevertheless takes the time to glare at him before turning on his heels and marching towards the supply closet. Eames decides to be charitable and not make any of the terrible jokes that are crowding in his mind.

The supply closet is lit by only one bare bulb, and its glare is not flattering to anyone’s skin tone. Yet something about the way Arthur is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, causes Eames’s heart to stutter (just a little bit) and his throat to tighten. He straightens his shoulders and aims for a polite and professional tone, with a slight note of impatience.

“What can I do for you, then?”

Arthur lifts his chin briefly, then relaxes into a pose of studied casualness – shoulders against the wall, hips jutting forward just a tiny bit, still and deadly and devastatingly attractive.

“You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you.”

Arthur’s voice is equally casual, suggestive of only mild curiosity and some level of boredom. Eames does hate it so when Arthur pretends to be bored with him.

“Probably. Though which of the many things I am doing on purpose to torment you would you be referring to, darling?” Eames lets a cheerful leer light up his grin, and notes with satisfaction a momentary scowl on Arthur’s otherwise bland face.

Arthur blinks, and then suddenly his face is only an inch away and there’s a thumb pressing into Eames’s chest. _Oww._

“That,” says Arthur, and presses harder.

It feels like a bruise, and from the location of Arthur’s fingers he can tell that it’s high on his chest, just under his collarbone, and probably peeking out through his open collar. Later Eames will spend hours thinking about how his body has been teasing Arthur all morning without any knowledge or deliberation on his part, but now he must pull Arthur closer and suck that scowl from his mouth.

There’s a small noise that gets lost in the lack of air between them, but Eames can feel it under his fingers on Arthur’s throat and he presses harder, thinking vaguely of leaving another mark, another sign of what they are and what they do to each other. But Arthur bites his lip and pulls back.

“No.”

His point is somewhat marred by the sharpness of his teeth on Eames's jaw, under his ear, but then again, if Arthur wants to be the one doing the marking, Eames has no objections.

And then it hits him, that Arthur who has been glaring at him and taunting him all morning is now so lost to his own standards of professionalism that he has dragged Eames to the supply closet in the middle of the day, just because of a tiny bruise, and because the thought of not making more of them was unbearable.

“Oh darling,” says Eames, and wraps his arms around Arthur, strokes one hand through his hair and pulls his face up for a kiss.

They end up being late for lunch, and late for work, but all the scowling in the world (and Arthur gives it his best shot) cannot take Eames’s mind away from the hickey on his neck. Nor Arthur’s, as Eames keeps stroking it with his chopstick.

Bruises should not feel lonely, Eames feels. He is hoping to acquire another one by the end of the day. Perhaps under his ear.

Eames gnaws on his chopstick, Ariadne mutters, and Arthur’s scowl turns into a reluctant and secret smile.


End file.
